


the songs unsung, the tales untold

by landfill_lady



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Hunger Games Setting, Alternate Universe - Scott Pilgrim Fusion, Alternate Universe - Supernatural (TV) Fusion, Multi, Sansa Stark is Queen in the North, Yes I know I'm trash, please don't feel the need to point it out in the comments
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-05-31
Updated: 2018-06-06
Packaged: 2019-05-15 08:49:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 1,546
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14787314
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/landfill_lady/pseuds/landfill_lady
Summary: A collection of short GOT/ASOIAF fic snippets (mostly AUs and UAs) from works I'll probably never get around to posting.chapter 1: "untitled hunger games au" (arya-centric)chapter 2: "gendry waters vs. the seven overprotective family members" (scott pilgrimau, gendrya)chapter 3: "untitled supernatural au" (sansa & arya; b/g harry/sansa)chapter 4: "the queen of winter" (post-s8 au, sandor/sansa)





	1. untitled hunger games au (arya-centric)

**Author's Note:**

> short disclaimer: most of the work i post here will be un-beta'd, gratuitously under-edited, and overall of dubious quality. sorry in advance! (& concrit is always appreciated)  
>   
> if your fancy is taken by any of these snippets, and you'd like more of it, or think you might like to write your own fic based on the same premise, please let me know either in comments or on [my tumblr!](https://landfill--lady.tumblr.com/ask)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Arya wakes panting from a dream she can’t quite remember._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is both a. cliché af and b. an extremely dated premise for an au but guess what i don't caaaaaaaare

Arya wakes panting from a dream she can’t quite remember. 

GOOD MORNING, CITIZENS! HAPPY REAPING DAY! the TV blares at her.

The bed is empty but for her small, shivering form; everyone else is already up and dressed.

Sansa stands at the stove frying eggs. She's already laid out the rest of breakfast - soft white bread with butter, strips of venison from Arya's last kill, and a whole pitcher of milk. It's a veritable feast by Stark family standards.

Bran sits next to her, his wheelchair pulled up to the breakfast table.

Mother is crouched over her desk, scribbling frantically on a much-erased scrap of paper; Arya wonders fleetingly if she's moved at all since last night. Rickon plays with his tin soldiers at her feet.  

Robb and Jeyne are probably just waking up next door, and Jon doing the same halfway across town. All the Starks are accounted for.

Arya swings herself out of bed, yawning heroically as her feet hit the cold floor.

"Morning, Arya," Sansa says absently, not taking her eyes off the eggs. "Bran's just finished his bath; the water should still be warm. I've set your reaping day clothes at the edge."

"I don't see why we have to dress up," Arya sulks, stealing a strip of venison from Bran’s plate. "Either our names are drawn, or we live one more year. There's no reason to pretend it's a party."

Sansa says nothing for a moment, but her pursed lips go white with tension. Finally, she grits out, "What did father always tell us?  _ Never let them see you weak.  _ I know you don't like 'dressing up', Arya, but it's for your own gods-damned good as much as anyone's."

Arya starts, and Bran and Rickon frown; even mother lifts her head for a moment. Sansa  _ never  _ swears. 

Contrite, Arya grasps her sister's hand. "One last Reaping, then you're free."

Sansa's answering smile is brittle. "And two more for you, and four for Bran, and Rickon hasn't even _started_ his yet." She takes a deep, shaking breath. "I'm sorry, I shouldn't snap. You’d best go on, Arya; the water will go cold.”Arya does as she’s bid, scrubbing herself pink before putting on her reaping day outfit.  After years of hissy fits, Sansa's ceded Arya's prim little dress for a white button-down and trousers, along with a crisp jacket painstakingly embroidered with wolves and winter roses. Arya dons it quickly, and Sansa does her hair while she eats - half-up, like she likes it. Like Father used to wear his.

Before long, breakfast is finished, and the TV screen flashes CHILDREN, PLEASE REPORT TO YOUR REAPING LOCATIONS.

“Time to go,” Arya notes bleakly.

As they start off down the road, Bran adds, in an uncanny approximation of Varys’ cheerful tone: “And may the odds be  _ ever  _ in our favor.”


	2. gendry waters vs. the seven overprotective family members (gendrya)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _"What is it?" Gendry asks apprehensively._   
>  _"The thing is, I have these seven really overprotective family members. And if you want to date me, you're going to have to-"_   
>  _"Win their approval? I can do that."_   
>  _Arya fidgets. "In a way."_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _in medias res_ snippet of a dumb idea i had this afternoon on the bus. you're welcome, internet.

Gendry takes a deep breath, and finally asks the question that's been on the tip of his tongue all evening. "Will you go out with me?"

Arya looks shifty. "I'd like that. Really. But..."

That _'_ s never a good sign.

"What is it?" Gendry asks apprehensively.

"The thing is, I have these seven  _really_ overprotective family members. And if you want to date me, you're going to have to-"

"Win their approval? I can do that."

Arya fidgets. "In a way."

"How?"

"Well, you sort of have to... defeat them all in single combat."

" _What?_ "

"It shouldn't be too hard," she adds reassuringly. "Sansa isn't that good at martial arts, and Rickon's only fourteen. You'll have to watch out for Dad, though - that broadsword is no joke."

Gendry lays his head in his hands, and spends a moment seriously regretting his taste in women.


	3. untitled supernatural au (background sansa/harry)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“Sansa. Mum’s on a hunt, and she hasn’t been home in a couple of weeks.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> because for some reason i'm soooo horny for cliché aus these days, i present for your reading pleasure the sisters stark, rolling around [ambiguous continent] in their impala, fighting ice zombies & other assorted supernatural spooks.

Arya squares her jaw. “Mum hasn’t been home in a couple of weeks.”

Sansa purses her lips. “So she’s off on another bender. Go search some bars; don’t come to  _ me _ .”

She moves to go back to bed, but Arya stops her with a hand around her wrist. 

“Sansa. Mum’s  _ on a hunt,  _ and she hasn’t been home in a couple of weeks.”

Sansa’s expression shifts immediately. She gives Ripped Idiot a swift peck on the cheek. “Harry, I need to go out with my sister for a bit, babe.” 

He frowns. “This late at night?”

Arya smirks at him. “Trust me, hot stuff. Your girlfriend can handle herself.”

She pulls the sheathed machete from her boot and tosses it at Sansa, who catches it without blinking.

Hot Dummy stares at Sansa as she tucks the blade away in her jacket, blushing.

“Babe. I’ll be back by Sunday night, I promise.”

When he looks inclined to argue, Sansa kisses him again, pushing him not-so-subtly towards the bedroom door. As it  _ clicks _ shut behind him, Arya shoots her sister a speaking glance.

“Not the brightest, is he, your boyfriend?”

“Fiancé, actually.”

Arya’s eyebrows raise even higher. 

Sansa rolls her eyes. “Anyways, what’s this hunt you were talking about?”


	4. the queen of winter (sansa/sandor; got)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Sandor lets his eyes drink their fill of Sansa. Her face is drawn with exhaustion, and a thin layer of powder barely conceals the shadows beneath her eyes. All the same, she is beautiful. She sits atop her forefathers' throne like it was made for her._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this was originally meant to be the first part of a much longer fic (a speculative post-s8 au, to be more precise), but i have so many wips up right now that it will probably take quite a while for me to get around to it in its entirety.  
> please keep in mind while reading that this is specifically a got fic, so if you're coming from the books, sansa might seem a bit out of character. (in the show, she's going down a very edgy(tm) path atmo.)

Sandor lets his eyes drink their fill of Sansa. Her face is drawn with exhaustion, and a thin layer of powder barely conceals the shadows beneath her eyes. All the same, she is beautiful. She sits atop her forefathers' throne like it was made for her.

Her voice rings out through the great hall, clear and melodious. "Let the next plaintiff come before his Queen."

Sandor steps forward. 

"You will kneel before the Queen," Brienne of Tarth informs him, hand at her pommel. Sandor ignores her.

"Have you no words for me, little bird?" he asks, directing his gaze toward Sansa. 

She says nothing, but her eyes have gone wide, and a frown stands out starkly from her pale forehead.

Brienne mirrors her mistress' expression, grasping the hilt of her sword. “You will kneel, and you will address her grace by her rightful title.”

Sandor meets her gaze, challenging. "Or what?"

"Or you will find yourself ejected from this hall by my bannerwoman, Lord Clegane." Sansa's sweet voice is ice-cool. Her expression holds no trace of fondness.

Sandor feels his brow raise. "Would you, know? Your King called me a brother-in-arms."

Sansa's lips purse. "My brother–  _cousin,_ " she amends, her eyes flashing with sorrow,  "–was a just man, and true. But he is king in the North no longer, and the succession has fallen to me. Now will you  _pay me fealty,_ or must I have you ejected from my court?"

Internally, Sandor reels. Sansa's tone - let alone this entire gods-damned power play - seems far more suited to Cersei than his sweet little bird. Has he made the wrong choice, in seeking sanctuary here?

But he has come too far to turn aside now. After another long, tense moment, Sandor sinks to one knee. "Your grace," he grits out.

Sansa's posture relaxes a fraction; Sandor thinks he can see a flash of relief in her cool blue eyes.

"You may rise. My lords and ladies, I would take a private audience with Lord Clegane. Ser Brienne, you will attend me."

 The great hall empties with some grumbling, although it is largely quelled by some judicious muscle-flexing and sword-grasping by the Queen's personal guard.

Once the three of them are alone, Sansa's posture shifts radically, as though a large weight has dropped from her shoulders. She rises from her throne and turns toward Sandor, smiling uncertainly. "My protector. I had not thought to see you again."

Sandor nods curtly, suddenly unspeakably angry with himself. He stood by while this woman - this _child -_ was tortured, and she stands here now and calls him _her_ _protector_. He is too low to live; too base even to darken Sansa's sight.

"Please forgive me for my coolness earlier," Sansa says, misattributing his black expression. "I must behave firmly if I wish to keep my bannermen's respect."

"You have lost some of your esteem for ruling with kindness, then," he observes.

Sansa frowns. "On the contrary; I esteem it now more than ever. But kindness often looks like weakness, especially to a man. In the absence of a husband, I must prove to my Lords that I am strong enough to bear the crown of swords myself. And a strong king would not have let a petty lord address him so familiarly in public, no matter how well they were acquainted. I acted as I ought."

"I suppose you can find no fine Northron lord to sue for your hand?" Sandor says sardonically.

"A lord who seeks neither my status nor my wealth? A lord who does not scheme to rule the North in my stead, who will take my name, and remain faithful to me even if I shy from his touch?" Sansa answers drily. "I fear such a man does not exist, my lord."

"Such a man might exist," Sandor says hoarsely. It's only when Sansa turns an incredulous look towards him that he realizes the full extremity of what he's just said, out loud.

"Was that an offer, my Lord?"

Sandor ought to say no. Saying anything _other than no_ would be a very, very bad idea. 

He says, "Yes." 

And after all - Gregor is dead, the dead's army defeated; even the long night itself is almost over. If Sandor wants to sue for the hand of the Queen of Winter, well - what's to stop him?

**Author's Note:**

> title from "the scholars" by alfred noyes.


End file.
